


November Drabble Challenge 2k15

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 19,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the November Drabble Challenge 2k15 on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. America/England: Secrets

Alfred knows the secret tucked away in every human's heart, tiny and niggling but always eager to emerge, always always _always._

Here's the secret: Mankind is selfish.

And he knows the secret is true, because right now Arthur is spasming on his lap, gurgling and choking on his own blood, and the only thing Alfred can think of is how he wishes Arthur will die faster so that he can clean the stickiness in between his fingers and dig out the dirt from under his nails.

Arthur knows the secret, too; he's the one who whispers it into Alfred's ear, before his voice lapses into the desperate gasps that are the only thing keeping him alive. "I'm cold," he says, muttering repeatedly in Alfred's ear, "it's so cold."

"Don't die!" Alfred shrieks, and he's crying then, ugly tears and uglier screams.

"It's cold," is Arthur's reply, and he recites it over and over until he can't anymore. Alfred knows the secret, because Arthur is a human and he dies selfishly in his arms, without even a goodbye, even though Alfred is begging and pleading and even beseeching, on his knees and praying to a non-existent God.

Alfred knows the secret, and he wishes he never finds out in the first place.  


	2. England: Showers

He doesn't take a scalding shower.

Instead, he takes a cold one. Preferably ice, he thinks, but it's not cold enough yet outside, the water tank is still not frozen over. He takes what he can get, though.

The cold numbs his skin, numb it so much that he can't feel the pain of the chilliness. He lets the cold soaks through his hair, into his scalp, into his skull; drowns his brain until everything is a deep puddle of floating goo and juice. The cold is refreshing, the cold is numbing. The cold washes everything away into the drain, until he can no longer feel, no longer think, but he can observe, mutely, like the ghosts at the edge of his mind, silent and musing, but never, ever, touching him.

He switches off the tap and watches the last of the water trickle down the pipes. Wipes himself dry, but his towel is old, so he swings the towel on his back and pulls the towel up to cover his head, sweeping the ends onto his shoulder.

He shivers when he steps out of the shower, right into the morning chill. The heater has not been switched on last night, because it's summer after all, it is supposed to be _hot._ But it rained instead, a freezing downpour that washes away the heat and numbs the air, and now the morning is _cold._

It's alright, though, he likes the cold; misses the cold, wants it, _yearns_ for it. The cold kisses his fingertips and slips up his arm, coiling around him even as he puts on his shirt. Then he's dressed; the cold huddling beneath his clothes, purring against his skin, and he leaves.  


	3. Belarus/Hungary: Snow

Natasha smiles with fresh snow in her eyes, and it makes Liz thinks of snow sprites, svelte and willowy as they dance in the snow.

Natasha is dancing right now, leaping across the stage with her limbs outstretched, and she revels in the attention, soaks up the stage light and the music, and _preens_ , much later, when the song ends and the audience roars their applause. 

Liz will be waiting for her at the backstage. The crew knows her well enough now to let her in, sees her tottering behind Natasha during practices and cheering when Natasha aces a new technique. She'll watch Natasha chatters giddily to her friends, uncharacteristic of her usual quiet nature, but Liz knows the feeling, the dizzy glee of a success and the adrenaline still pumping through the veins, the breathlessness of exertion gone right, and it's so _easy_ to sink into that post-victory bliss that she never wants to climb out of herself.

Then Natasha spots her, and her grin will soften into a small smile, but it's a smile brighter than any of the ones she gives on stage. _Give me a minute_ , she mouths, and disappears behind one of the curtains. And when she's out again, she moves lithely until she's right in front of Liz.

"How's the performance?" she asks, and the tiny note of uncertainty slips in, a rare show of vulnerability.

Liz smiles, and leans down. Pecks her on the lips. "You're beautiful," she says.

Natasha smiles so vibrantly, like fresh snow on Christmas day.  


	4. Russia/Prussia: Traps

Every morning, Prussia will stand beside the wall.

Russia always joins him, a little while later, a coat on his shoulders and another in his arms. For him, Russia says, it's not good to stand in the snow.

Prussia thanks him and wraps the coat around himself.

They stand there in the snow and stares at everything and nothing, until the sky brightens to a dull grey and Russia has to go back. Prussia will have continued staying there, but Russia looks more gaunt every single visit, eye bags thicker and cheeks more hollowed, and Prussia, he - he _worries._

Sometimes Russia comes to him with paranoia and power-lust swirling in his eyes, and Prussia will wrap his fingers around Russia's wrist before realising his thumb covers up the the second knuckle of his fingers. He pretends not to notice, anyway, pulling Russia down to sit with him, backs to the wall and their legs crossed, leaning on cages and staring at the snow falling from the sky. They are both thinking of simpler times, Prussia knows, when they can stand together trading soft touches and cheeky kisses as they laugh at their allies' antics, but now everything's changed and it's all so much heavier, so much more complicated. The world is changing and they can't catch up, because they don't want it to change.

Then the winter sky brightens, they have to leave, and as Prussia treads behind Russia, watching the man stumbles every few steps with a painfully straightened back, Prussia sees the shadow of a bear he once hunted; strong and powerful but its paws are caught in a bear-trap, and with every step the bones crunches a little more, a bear cursed by his own strength.  


	5. France/Spain: Timeline

Two weeks ago, Francis is screaming and Antonio is apologising, and they are both in tears, tears that are warm and bitter and will not stop flowing no matter how they wipe.

Two months ago, they are laughing and giggling, trying to slather cream onto each other's face.

Three weeks ago, Francis walks into a room, and sees something a person shall never be allowed to see. The utter sense of betrayal chokes him, and Francis leaves the room without saying anything.

Three years ago, Francis wraps a scarf around Antonio's neck, and tells him he's stupid for dressing up so lightly when he's not use to the French winters. Antonio laughs, and grabs Francis's hands, stuffing them into his pocket. "Now we're both warm," he says, and Francis feels like crying.

Four days ago, Francis is standing in his new room, Matthew shuffling nervously beside him, waiting for Francis to break down, to cry, to yell, to give a snobby comment, _anything_ . Instead, Francis heaves deeply, and turns to smile at Matthew. "Will you mind helping me unpack these boxes?"

Four years ago, Antonio sits at the foot of his bed, a blanket over his shoulders, and the morning light casts magic on him, the glow around him looking like a _halo_ and Francis wants to paint him. Antonio chews his lips nervously, and then he looks up, green eyes tinted by golden sun rays, and asks, "Will you move in with me?"

(and Francis is in _love_.)

Five days ago, Antonio calls. Francis does not pick up.

Five years ago, they have not even meet yet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel at [12\. Atonement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12022229)


	6. France/England: Black Hole

Arthur digs his nails so deeply Francis is amazed that he hasn't drawn blood. He squeezes back, tries to crush Arthur's stupidly bony hands, and Arthur _claws_.

Above the tablecloth, Arthur's mother is smiling, the teary kind mothers always wear when they watch their child finally grows up, when they know they can _let go_. "I'm glad you've found someone," she says, "and he's your _colleague_. He'll be able to help you, can't he? Follow you to all the places we never could. I'm so happy for you, Arthur, so _so_ happy."

Arthur's face softens, and even though Francis knows this is all a farce, it still touches his heart, to see Arthur so gentle, so unguarded.

The hand clutching onto his loosens, and Arthur says, "Thank you, Ma."

* * *

Their hands are entwined together, cold and clammy, fingers grasping desperately to hold on tighter,  _tighter_ , just a little more closer, until their skins are melded together and they can no longer tell whose hands are whose.

"I'm scared," Arthur rasps, and he's crying, isn't he, tears rolling down in ugly, salty droplets, and Francis feels the same stickiness on his face.

He squeezes Arthur's hand and shushes him. "It'll be ok. I said I'll follow you, remember?"

Arthur squeezes back, and there is a strangle tingling in his chest when the small smile is turned towards him for the first time, soft and bare and Francis _aches_. But the timer is counting down and their ship is sucked closer, and in a few seconds it will be torn apart and they will be flung out into other dimensions, other universes, probably drifting in pieces by the time they make it through.

So Francis leans in and kisses him. He feels Arthur's eyelashes flutter close, and then they are smiling against each other's lips as they sink towards the center of the galaxy.


	7. Denmark/Seychelles: Fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderson = Denmark

There are tens and hundreds of tourists and locals around them, but he sees her, and she sees him.

She smiles and nods; an acknowledgement, her long ponytails bobbing slightly with the movement. Then she turns and runs, and disappears into the crowd.

But Anderson knows a promise when he sees one.

He goes to the same beach again, but later, when the Sun has dipped into the ocean and the skies are bejewelled with stars. She is standing there, in a blue sundress, toeing the coastline as the waves caresses the shore.

"Hello," Anderson says, and she turns.

"Hello," she echoes, and smile is back, brilliant and blinding. "Welcome to Seychelles, stranger. What brings you here?"

"Sightseeing," he answers. "The heat is nice."

The girl laughs, and it makes a pretty sight, long hair let down and drifting in the wind, a young girl with her hands clutching her stomach as she leans backwards, chuckling and giggling and spinning on one foot on a calm night. "So you're from the North." She grabs Anderson's elbow. "Come with me, I know a quiet place."

She brings him to the cliffs, away from the tourists, to a little corner that is tucked away from curious eyes, somewhere that is untouched and guarded by tall rocks and the air is saturated with something _unworldly_. And then she _jumps_ , dress and all, into the ocean. Disappears.

Anderson feels a justified sense of deja vu as he counts to twenty in his head. Then she is back again, resurfaces with a loud _splash!_ \- and her eyes, they're _glowing._

"Come on, Northerner," she calls, her teeth gleaming on its edge.

"Unlike you, I can't just slip out of my clothes," Anderson calls back, and tries to shimmies out of his jeans. The girl watches, amused as Anderson hops on one leg to kick off the rest of it.

"Don't make me wait so long. Surely you can swim in a shirt?" she challenges, and splashes a small wave at him.

The water falls just short of his toes. Anderson grins, and breaks into a run. He leaps and tastes the salt in the air, and then he's in the water, darting deeper and deeper as she swims beside him, a flicker of orange and indigo as they race to the ocean floor.

"Welcome to Seychelles, Northerner," the girl says, her vivid tail fluttering to a gentle sway as they reach the bottom.

He pokes a bubble drifting out from her gills and chuckles. "Nice to meet you. I'm Anderson from Denmark, and you?"  


	8. China, Taiwan, Hong Kong: Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wang Xiao Mei "May" - Taiwan  
> Leon Wang Kha Loung/Jia Long - Hong Kong

  
"You do not play  _suonas_  at two o'clock before dawn," Yao says, breaking off into a yawn as he scowls grouchily by the door. "The neighbours will complain, and they already complain  _enough_ in the day about its noise."  


Leon grins, that little shit, and raises the instrument. "You're the one who demands a Distinction for my grading. It's in _two days._  I need that extra nightly practice."

May stumbles out from her room too, her hair a frizzy lump on her shoulders. She elbows Yao on her way over, but it ends up more like a lazy nudge instead, her sleepiness draining away her strength. Then she leans, bonelessly, on the opposite wall to Yao. "I thought it's one of our neighbours holding a funeral at some weird 'auspicious' hour."

Yao snickers and folds his arms. "He'll wake the dead themselves at this rate," he points out. "Plus, you're off tune. The pitch is too flat. You want _E_ , not D _sharp_."

Leon mutters something that sounds vaguely like _didn't moist it thoroughly anyway_  and Yao hisses. "If you're going to disturb everyone you might as wellpractice with proper _preparation._ "

Leon huffs and almost slams his _suona_ down, but slows down at the last inch and places it down gently instead. Then he retorts, "You _never_ tell May off when she plays her _erhu_ without tuning! It sounds like some widow with sore throat _wailing._ "

"Oh, I thought it's due to a lack of skills."

"Hey! I'm not that bad!"

"And the scratchy noise!" Leon continues. "It's like some stupid cat or chicken set on cardboard!"

Yao nods and pats May on her shoulders. "She has no emotions too. No wonder she fails twice in a row."

May shrieks and throws her hands up in the air. "You people are such arrogant _jerks_ ," she leers, stomping back to her room. Leon and Yao winces when the door slams loudly.

The silence drags, and then Leon cocks his head to the side. "So can I continue -"

A loud yell to _shut up, and fuck your mums_  rings from outside the window, probably from an annoyed neighbour deprived of sleep. Normally, Yao will find it perfectly _reasonable_ for the complaints, and thinks it's a good thing for Leon to get knocked off his high horse and be _scolded,_  but the vein above his right eye is twitching and he's just _rearing_  to vent.

"Stupid dick what's your problem! Wear some ear plugs if it's so noisy!" He almost topples over the window when he leans over. As it is, he simply trembles slightly at the cool air.

More lights are flickering on as the shouting match continues, and more curses about mothers and burning ancestors can be heard. Leon sighs, wondering how long it will take before the police are called over, and continues practising his wondrously blaring _suona._  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is painfully self indulgent and I can go on a whole rant about all the different instruments, but anyway:
> 
> [Chinese curses](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E9%AB%92%E8%A9%B1) involves a lot of cussing of your [mother](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E5%B9%B9%E4%BD%A0%E5%A8%98), a substantial amount about your [http://www.guokr.com/question/475946/#answer507601](url), the few about sisters that normally goes as an add on to mothers, and lastly the [sexual genitals](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E5%82%BB%E5%B1%84) that seems to never will be left alone.
> 
> Also _[suona](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suona)_ is really hard to play (some say it’s the hardest to master) and also really damned loud. Try not to practice outside of a sound-proof room. Most of the time in an orchestra if the _suona_ messes up when they enter, the whole orchestra kind of flails and dies no matter how good the other instruments are, because it's so loud it's pretty much what we like to describe, the _frontlines._
> 
>  _[Erhu,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erhu)_ if you're good at it, sounds awesome, but is also bloody hard and otherwise sounds like wailing screeches, and it’s so easy to go slightly _off_ too, much like _suona_. It's like violins, but so, so much harder.


	9. America/Canada: Professionalism

"Sir, occupying a table to do your school work instead of dining is strictly not allowed during peak hours. Please kindly leave this café if you're not buying anything."

"But dude," Alfred whines, and pats the stacks of scattered notes on the table. Matthew eyes a certain string of kinematics formulae and the shabbily buried graphic calculator, and wonders what is Alfred planning. Again. "Aren't we _bro_ s? Come on, just let me study here for a few more hours. The library is crammed pack, but this place?" He gestures vaguely. "It has good ambience, a homely smell, and decent lighting! It's such a wonderful place to study."

Matthew sighs. It seems that recently, every time he chances upon Alfred, he is sighing. "While I'm at work, we're not _bro_ s, sir," he explains, "and this is a café, not a study lounge. Pay up or get _up_."

Alfred pouts, and for a second Matthew sees the overlapping image of a kicked puppy and feels guilty for kicking Alfred out, but the pricks at the back of his neck - most likely from the silent yet judgemental glare from his manager - reminds him that he is a _professional_. He can harden his heart and do this, _this_ referring to kicking out the grumpy American who is currently _sprawled_ over his papers, poking stationeries and all, with a finger raised in the air. Alfred mumbles something incoherently, and Matthew has to listen closer to hear something that sounds vaguely like, _one more coffee,_ and, _spending too much money just to see you..._

Wait what?

"Did you just say what I think I heard you say?" Matthew blurts, and he feels his face burns, the heat spreading from the circles of his cheek up to his ears.

Alfred starts, shooting up and scattering his notes onto the floor. Matthew's instincts kick in and he scrambles to pick it up, just as Alfred bends down. Their heads collide with a painful _thud_ , and Alfred recoils, clutching his head as Matthew falls, gracelessly on his _bum._

"Sorry," Alfred squeaks - squeaks! - and holds out a hand.

Matthew stares dubiously at it for a moment, suspicions and pains muddling up his train of thoughts. He takes it anyway, muttering a soft _thanks_ for good measure.

And then he's up on his feet, staring down at Alfred, who's face is growing increasingly more red and steadfastly avoiding Matthew's eye. "S-Shouldn't you get my order?"

He does not drop his gaze. "Did you really say that you came here just to see me?"

Alfred flushes, bright and red, and Matthew thinks about those red velvet cakes in the display case. Then Alfred nods, and all of Matthew's thoughts shrink down to a single, soft _oh._

"Oh," he says, and Alfred hunches deeper into himself. "Erm, please wait for a moment."

He walks back to get a slice of cake; red velvet chocolate, with an extra slab of the café's signature cream, his movements feeling detached and dreamy, and then he's back by Alfred's side, placing the cake next to him.

"It's on the house," Matthew says, and tries not to smile when Alfred turns those eyes, big and captivating and _surprised_ , towards him. "I think... I will like it if you stay. For me."

Alfred grins, pulling the plate towards him. "I'll like it very much too."

They smile at each other, staring and wondering about what this exchange means, and somehow the atmosphere changes and it feels like it's just the two of them, in the café separated from everyone else. Something between them has been triggered, something in their friendship, and Matthew has this inkling that he will like this change.

Then he remembers. "You're still paying for your cup of coffee though," he adds.

Alfred curses.  


	10. America/Russia(/England): Love

When they first meet, Ivan hates Alfred F. Jones.

But as fate will have it, in a matter of five months (after a few crashed drunken party, petty competitions, an enraged cats, and a few betting pools) they are lying on the couch together, Alfred pressing soft kisses against his neck, and Ivan _loves_ him.

Ivan, however, does not love it when Alfred suddenly shoots up and knocks right up into his jaw.

"Shit!" Alfred yells, after recovering from the pain of the collision. "Shit shit goddamn it fucking shit!"

Ivan sits up, rubbing his jaw. It's slightly prickly; he needs to shave soon. "What's wrong?"

"Tidy yourself up, he's -"

The door slams open, effectively cutting Alfred off. Apparently, they have been so... distracted, that they have missed the jingles of the key. Arthur stands at the frame with his bags of groceries. He is glaring, his thick eyebrows making it all the more intimidating, and it's with a snarl that he says, "What was it that I say about our common space again?"

Alfred pulls up his pants and slides off sheepishly onto his feet. "That it should remain PG no matter the circumstances," he recites.

Arthur's eyebrows raise higher. "Then?"

At Alfred's helpless shrug, Arthur's attention moves over to Ivan, who's flinching at the scrutiny. Then Arthur glances lower, and smirks.

"I never know you have such interesting kinks, Alfred," he says. "I'm sure heart-shaped boxers are _very_ arousing."

Ivan yelps and pulls a pillow over his groin. He feels his blood pools at the bottom of his stomach when Arthur looks back at him, piercing eyes that seem to _mock_ him even though Arthur has not even _addressed_ him once.

"I'm going out soon anyway," Arthur announces, sauntering over to the kitchen. "But for the sake of my eyes, please choose something less _tacky_ to wear next time."

He shuts the door, snickering and leaving as sudden as he comes. Ivan watches Alfred gapes at the door, notices the nervous lick of lips and the strange look in his eyes, then Alfred squeaks, "There's a next time?"

Ivan loves Alfred, and he loves it even more when they happen to _want_ the same thing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel at [13\. Steady](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12022319)


	11. South Korea/Fem!China: For You, With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wang Yuer (瑜儿)= Fem!China

Once he realises no one can truly stop him, he stops caring.

He drops out of school. He starts running around with a marker, scribbling bad puns and dirty jokes on alley walls. He begins lounging outside shops smoking until he gets chased away or the sun rises, whichever comes first. He puts flower crowns on manholes, runs around singing boisterously at midnight or setting up a little prank here and there and laughing when people in neat suits or thin dresses _shriek_ when they find themselves drenched with tap water.

He uses his ability to teleport to get away with everything he does, and he becomes the residential hooligan that is just a _tad_ endearing, because as annoying as he is, Yong Soo has _never_ done anything nefarious.

"I stopped for you," Yong Soo says, grinning cheekily as he slings an arm around her.

Yuer frown and shrugs his arm off. "You're still a bad influence," she says, "now go away."

Yong Soo pouts and skips in front of her. "I can steal anything with my ability. I can even be like Nicholas Cage and steal the American declaration of independence! But I didn't, you know. I don't do all these, all because of you."

"Am I supposed to feel touched?" Yuer shakes her head, but the ends of her lips are twitching. Yong Soo counts that as a small victory.

* * *

"This... this is beautiful," Yuer gasps, and she looks so beautiful too, so _ethereal_ amongst the fog and clouds that are swirling around her, and Yong Soo thinks of all their mythologies, about fairies and goddesses, sprites and deities.

"Aren't you glad you met me?" Yong Soo nudges her, and feels his heart skips a beat when she smiles at him.

"Oh shut up," she says, but she's laughing, and isn't this place called Tianmenshan? The mountain of the heavenly doors? At the top of the world above the clouds, with Yuer not laughing at, but _with_ him, it feels like _heaven._

* * *

Her parents decide that the only way for Yuer to stay away from him, is to move to another country, and they forbid her to tell him  _where_ .

But it's fine, they don't know what Yuer and he knows, and right now he's sitting on her bed as she packs for her trip, snickering as Yuer starts fumbling through her bras.

"Oh shut it, won't you? It's not like you don't see them on sales at the side of the road all the time," she grumbles as she tosses a bunch - laced, Yong Soo notes smugly - into a duffel bag.

"I see them, but those are never _used_ before, and they are not _yours_ ," he teases, and surely, Yuer's face flushes red as she squawks and throws a comb at him.

Yong Soo teleports away from the bed before the comb hits him. It will have hit him right at the nose, and he marvels at Yuer's hand-eye coordination - probably from her years of martial arts - before the world stops spinning and Yuer is beside him and _glaring_.

Yong Soo laughs, and nudges her on the nose. "I supposed I can't see you as often after you moved," he admits. "Can't have your parents begin suspecting."

Yuer laughs. She laughs a lot nowadays, when she's with him. It's a far cry from all those years ago, when they are younger and Yong Soo has yet to drop out, when Yuer is always frowning and judging, her littler self raising an eyebrow as she looks up from her assessment books.

"They can't stop you if you truly tries. No one can," she says, entwining her fingers with his. She holds up their hands, and Yong Soo stares, entranced that _Yuer initiates it! She held my hand first!_

"I know," he replies, and they're smiling _together._ "Aren't you glad of the lengths I'm willing to go for you?" 


	12. France/Spain: Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [5\. Timeline](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/11960822)

They got back together, but Antonio never stops atoning for his mistake.

He stops drinking, and even when he did, it's only a customary sip, out of politeness, and he never stays out too late anymore. He calls every time he comes home late, and even then he's always back by midnight.

Antonio never says anything when Francis sometimes yell at him, tries to get a rise out of him. He simply smiles sadly, and takes and takes and takes, takes every insult, absorbs every bit of anger. He don't fight back.

Antonio never stops atoning.

It's wrong.

It's wrong, it's unhealthy, it's _abusive_. Francis knows love is a compromise, it's a give-and-take relationship and both sides are supposed to be _happy._ But every time Francis sees Antonio, sees the flash of guilt behind his smile and the cautious touches, Antonio's fear of Francis flinching away once more, hell, it _guts_ him.

And that is why he's sitting in the living room, lips thinned as he stares at Antonio, standing by the door. "We need to talk," Francis says.

He sees the growingly familiar panic flits across Antonio's face, before it fades back to the usual smile. "About what?"

"This!" Francis stretches out his arms. "What you just did! Everything about _us_ , Toni! Don't tell me you think everything is fine."

Antonio bites his lips. "Everything _is_ fine," he assures, but it feels like more to himself than Francis.

"We need to talk," Francis repeats, slowly this time, emphasising the "need" particularly loudly.

Antonio stares at Francis, and this is the first time in months where he do not look away from Francis's gaze.

This is also the first time in months when he stops smiling too, and suddenly, Antonio looks so old and so very tired.

"Ok," Antonio replies.

* * *

It ends in a shouting match. Francis is aware that they are both crying when Antonio slams the door shut and goes for a walk to cool his head, the hinges creaking terribly and the echo of the slam reverberating throughout the empty flat.

Francis sinks against the wall, heaving and sobbing, but it feels like the first time in months when he can _breathe_.

When Antonio comes back, he takes one look at Francis, who is crumpled on the ground, and Antonio sinks too, sinks infront of Francis, and hugs him. "I'm sorry," he mutters, smoothing a hand down Francis's hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Francis whispers, and for a moment, everything is alright again, everything is back to normal, and it's like all those years ago, when Antonio is smiling and he feels like crying, because they are in _love_ then. "Everything will be alright now."

"I promise," Antonio says, and Francis falls in love all over again.

* * *

Antonio starts drinking again. He still doesn't get drunk, and he still phones every time he's staying out late. But sometimes he stays out too late and Francis makes him sleep at the couch for a week, and sometimes Antonio gets angry and they have loud, tremulous rows, with broken plates and shaking hinges.

But it's ok, because at the end of the day, they will be peppering kisses on each other's faces and they will be smiling, they will be happy, and they will still be in love; head over heels, breathtakingly, giddily and dizzily and painstakingly in _lov_ _e_ , and Francis knows that everything is going to be fine.  


	13. (America/)Russia/England: Steady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [10\. Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12022130)

He can never tell if his earliest memory truly happens, or if it's just another one of his nightmares.

Ivan wakes from a nightmare of the memory, and has to force himself to count down from twenty, and then in Russian, then French; he stares at the grey wall and reminds himself that he's no longer in Russia, no longer not daring to _breathe_ because they may hear him.

He reaches out to his left; Alfred grumbles at the cold touch, rolling over, before his breath settles back to steady patterns as Alfred drifts off back to sleep. Ivan listens to it, tries to calm his heart to the pattern of Alfred's breathing, and feels himself relaxes.

He tries to be as stealthy as possible as he sits up, although his feet still make a small _thud_ as he slides off the bed. The moon casts its light through the open window, and in the dimness, it feels like a blanket, and Ivan feels safe, existing in the shadows.

"Are you alright?" a soft whisper from behind, and Ivan jumps - he presses his back to the wall, and scans for the source of the voice.

Arthur stares at him from the right side of where Ivan has been sleeping, the crumpled gap between his lovers is suddenly large and empty as Arthur pushes himself up on his elbows. "A nightmare?" he affirms, and his voice is so very gentle, so very soothing, and it drags him out of his mind, where it's filled with sharp barks and louder screams.

Ivan stares at Arthur, and it takes a few seconds for his mind to catch up that yes, Arthur is part of their relationship now. It's no longer two of them, but _three_ , and Ivan still finds it bewildering every time he gives it thought. He nods, anyway, to Arthur's question, and Arthur's face softens.

"Come here?" he beckons with a lazy raise of hand. Ivan pads back, and climbs onto the bed as Arthur wraps his arms around Ivan's neck. He pulls Ivan down onto him, and Ivan falls with an _oomph_ as he buries his face against Arthur's neck. "It's ok, I got you."

"Alfred once told me that when he's younger, you'll be asked over to babysit him. Every time he has nightmares, you'll hug him to sleep, and it's very comforting, even though you're barely bigger than he is," Ivan mumbles, and he shifts slightly so he's not completely crushing the other man.

Arthur chuckles and strokes Ivan's head. It feels strangely good, and it makes him feels safe. Ivan can't help but _purrs_. "I do wish I'm as good a hugger as he says I am," Arthur whispers, the reverberation from his throat feels like a rocking cradle when combined with the heaving of his chest. "But for now, sleep."

Ivan snuggles deeper, and between the gentle rocking and the steady heart beats, he drifts off back to sleep.

This time, he doesn't dream.  


	14. Czech/Lithuania: Braiding

Lithuania's fingers aren't nimble.

They're clumsy, and they trip on each other, fat flesh smacking against one another everytime she tries to do something even slightly  _intricate_ .

Nevertheless, she's long accept that her fingers are too fat and big to be anything but the flat opposite of _nimble_ , and that's why she pulls her hair into a loose braid, fast enough to arrange waist-length hair into without having to worry about wayward strands.

She does like to watch, however, the Czech Republic when the other braids her hair. It's nothing complicated; her fringe is simply braided to the back of her head (which, amazingly, manages to frame her bob-cut to be softer and more elegant, adding length and flattening the upper puff of the hair. It is a sharp contrast from the feisty look that is normally associated with said hairstyle, and somehow, it makes Lithuania wants to fluff up her perfectly intertwined hair and watch her _huffs_ , feisty and all with her bob-cut). When Czech braids, her fingers, thin and small and slender - not like Lithuania's hands at all - as they slips between separated parts of her hair, and it's like magic, the way the hair slides along her fingers into tidy braids, smooth and snug like the weaves of a good basket.

"I don't know how they do that," Hungary admits, one day when she comes over to visit Poland.

"Hmm?" Lithuania answers, holding up two pieces of the same dress, except one is slightly fainter while the other is more  _rosy blush_ . She throws both at Poland, because if she's going to make them help clean up her room, then she better not complain when they sort the colour order  _wrong_ .

"Do all those fancy hairstyles. I have such trouble just getting my hair to unknot and look _presentable_. Imagine if I decide to doll it up?" She cringes, and rakes her fingers through her hair. It gets stuck halfway. "It'll take forever!"

"But Austria totally helps you oil your hair," Poland points out, "and he'll like, help you if you ask him to do your hair. Probably by paying someone to be your personal hairstylist."

Hungary snickers. "True. But you don't have such troubles, do you? You have short hair!"

Poland has her hair cut to a bob too, and like Czech, it doesn't make her look feisty, but unlike Czech, it makes her look  _cute_ . The pout isn't helping. "Short hair is a lot of work too! Like, you have to pay as much attention to it as long hair, but you need to pay extra attention to make sure it doesn't puff!"

The lack of the  _puff_ part for Czech's hair is probably thanks to her braid, Lithuania thinks. Her own hair puffs too, sometimes when she visits the warmer countries, and she tames it down with oil and a lot of snapped hairties. Lithuania wonders if Czech faces the same problem when she travels south sometimes, if her braid gets progressively harder to stay in place, and if she slams her comb down onto the dressing table as Lithuania had and screams about the damned  _humidity_ .

She gets her answers one day, but in a manner she least expected.

"Why are you staring at me during the meeting?" Czech asks, after another diplomatic conference and everyone has evacuated the hall.

Lithuania has been having some problems with her laptop, so she decides she may as well try to salvage whatever data she has before the stupid gadget gives way and ends up smoking or thrown out of the window, whichever comes first. "Buh?" she replies, and the laptop wheezes an equally confused but much more worrying sound as the machinery inside it whirrs and creaks.

It seems the response embarrasses Czech, because she's blushing when she asks again, "I mean, I  _think_ you're looking at me, but maybe you're just staring at nothing... But if you are staring at me, which I'm quite sure you are..." She gives Lithuania a pointed look. "Because your eyes have been following me throughout the room for the whole day, even when I shifted seats -" Lithuania winces. "-and I would like to know why."

She pauses, then chews her bottom lip worryingly. "Is there something on my face?"

"Oh, no!"  _I was staring at your hair._ "Your face is fine," Lithuania blurts.

Czech blinks. Lithuania blinks too. Then Czech blinks again, and she furrows her eyebrows. "What?"

"Er, I mean." Lithuania flaps her arms around her and hopes she can fan away her embarrassment. "There's nothing on your face."

"Oh."

Yes, oh. A little voice niggling at the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Poland is squealing at her that she's a socially awkward shame, and either she moves on and tries to salvage the conversation, or she moves to her rural areas and lives out the rest of her immortal life away from social interaction as a very tall hobbit.

"Actually, I'm staring at your hair," Lithuania admits. Czech looks even more confused now. She quickly amends, "Because, er, your braid. It's so neat and pretty. How do you do that?"

Czech frowns. "Don't you braid your hair too?" she retorts. "You just... Braid it?"

Lithuania shakes her head and lets her ponytail swings onto her shoulders. "I can never get it neat. My fingers aren't nimble enough. Too thick."

Czech raises an eyebrow and grabs Lithuania's hand. Her fingers, so much smaller and softer, look dwarfed next to Lithuania's, and Lithuania has a sudden urge to grab the smaller hand and squeeze it tight, just to see how hard she can push before Czech's bones break.

"Your hands aren't that thick," Czech finally says. Lithuania glances up in surprise, and accidentally grabs Czech's fingers.

Czech jumps, but doesn't pull away. "It's bigger than mine, but it isn't big, just  _bigger_ ." She unclenches Lithuania's hand and drags a finger across her palm. "See those calluses?" she says. "They make your hands appear bigger than they actually are."

"But my fingers are still not nimble," Lithuania mutters. She glances at her reflection from the window across them, and her reflection stares back at her, cheeks red all the way up to the tips of her ears. Czech follows her gaze and looks back, but thankfully does not comment on it.

"Some people just can't tie neat plaits, but it can become neater if you practice more." Her eyes light up. "Maybe you can practice on me! It's easier to learn how to tie neat plaits on others, then try and do it on yourself."

When Czech pulls off her hairtie, her fringes falls in wavy clumps to the side of her face, making her looks slightly mussed and absolutely  _cute_ .

Lithuania swallows; nods, reaching out a hand and touches Czech's hair gingerly. The strands are coarser than she expected, but it's still soft, and it slips around her fingers as she tries to weave them together. She pulls away when she's done, and Czech reaches out to trace the braid with her finger. She stares at her reflection and smiles.

"It's not bad," Czech concludes, and then she's staring at Lithuania with humour in her eyes. "But it can certainly do more practice."

"Do you mind lending me your hair in future to practice?" Lithuania pauses and reconsiders. "Perhaps you can give me tips too."

Czech laughs, and a few strands from her braid falls across her face. "Why not," she says. Lithuania thinks about all the times when she wonders about messing up Czech's braid to make her huff, but now the image comes with badly contained laughter and Czech with tears in her eyes from laughing too hard.

"Why not," Lithuania echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you ship something so rare you can't even figure out the damned ship name.


	15. Prussia/England: Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest shit I've ever completed.

The coin is silver. Or it looks silver, at least. The emblem is slightly tarnished, stained grey with black dirt inbetween the gaps.

But it's the only coin with such a crest amidst a jar of other coins, and he wonders just _where_ did it come from, how far did it travel, for it to end up in the little jar at the front of the church?

Father Andrew thanks the last of the people trickling out of the church, and walks away, away from the jar to the huge doors to close it, because it's winter and even though _the gates of the church will stand open always to receive_ , it's still pretty darn cold. The pastor lingers at the door though, a moment of struggle to shut it against the force of the chilly wind, and Gilbert seizes the chance to fish the coin from the jar and slips it into his sleeve.

* * *

He feels a niggle of guilt sinks at the bottom of his stomach everytime he stands to the side listening to Father Andrew, sinks like the coin that slides down from his sleeve into his palm. He _can_ keep it away, hide it under a pillow, but it's only been a few days since, and he doesn't want his fellow Brothers  to find the coin. He knows he shouldn't take it, but it's his now, and even if he confesses Gilbert knows that as long as he hasn't atone and returns the coin he has not _repented_.

So he keeps the coin on him, lets it slides into his palm and then clenches his hand, feels the warm press of the metal digging into his flesh, and then allows the coin to slip up his sleeve before falling back down again, as he moves across the halls doing his duties. It'll be a secret, a forbidden charm, something special and unique and the _one and only_ to bless him in the way God will not because Gilbert is a sinner who steals coins meant for donations and believes in powers and fate instead.

Plus, he's always good at sleights of hand anyway.

* * *

It's been a few years since, and the coin is no longer grey and tarnished but silver and bright. Gilbert sneaks the coin to the backyard to rub it with soap, and if anyone sees anything, they definitely said nothing.

He no longer hides the coin in his sleeve, but slips it in the cover of his bible. Either way, he still brings it around everywhere, and when he's stressed or tired, he will press onto the cover for the familiar rise of the metal, rubbing his finger against it for some good luck to stick on to him.

He's seen coins with the same emblems dropped into the donation jar for a few years now. It's nothing special after all, simply coins from a foreign country that starts increasing in circulation after its economy boosts, but Gilbert still favours that one coin from all those years ago. It may not be the only one of its kind, but that is Gilbert's lucky coin, so it is _the_ special one, in some sort of way.

Gilbert's old now, old enough that sometimes Father Andrew lets him lead sessions, and he no longer feels the heaviness on his chest as he thumbs the coin from the cover of the bible he's reading aloud from. He calls for repentance and love, recites honesty and resistance of temptation, and at night he snickers at the irony of it all before he falls asleep.

Then comes the stranger amidst a storm at the stroke of midnight.

* * *

The stranger is a man from the Kingdom that mints the coin Gilbert hides in his bible.

He, like all others from there, doesn't talk about the Kingdom, but simply slips one of those coins into the jar.

"May I stay for a night?" he asks, standing between the front pews.

Gilbert notices the way the stranger hunches into himself, pulling his cloak tighter around him and the water dripping from the bangs that peeks from under his hood, and says, "The church's doors are always open, but heck, I think you need a new change of clothes before you die from the cold. Wait here; I'll see if I can get you some spares."

In the end, the stranger is huddling next to the faint heat of the candles, wearing Gilbert's spare because obviously no one believes Gilbert when he claims he needs a spare set of clothing. Why he does not simply tell them about the stranger Gilbert's not sure, but that night, with Gilbert's blanket around their shoulders and the stranger ("Call me Arthur," he says, and Gilbert tastes the strange consonant in his mouth a few times before he gets the _th_ right) tells him about his plans to stay around the Confederation for a few months before heading much eastern.

"You can stay, if you want," Gilbert blurts, grinning even though he's surprised at his own words, "the church's doors are never close. In return, you can help out with some chores."

 

Gilbert chalks it up to his curiosity of learning more about the coin's origins and finally meeting someone from the Kingdom willing to at least _talk_ , that possess him to offer the option, but when Arthur's face, tired and ashen, splits apart with an astonished smile, Gilbert feels his heart soars.

* * *

Arthur can curse up a storm that has got even the hardiest of sailors blushing red, but he has the cheek to scrunch his eyebrows and ask Gilbert, "Aren't holy men not supposed to cuss?"

Gilbert swears through three generations of the butcher's family, and swoops down on Arthur like those stupid crows when you wronged one of them. "Is that how it's like in your Kingdom?" he retorts.

Arthur does the half-shrug, weird facial expression twisting thing where he scrunched his eyebrows and one side of his lips twitch up everytime his Kingdom is mentioned. Gilbert wants to pinch his cheeks and pull it wide apart to uncrease it. "Well, most holy men swears themselves to God because they believe they have received a calling, or something. Is this not the case here?"

"Noble." Gilbert nods. "But most of us are here because it's the only way to get food when you can't get a proper skill of trade."

"Oh." Arthur shifts and crosses his legs. The scrolls on his lap tumbles down, and both men curses. "That's different."

 

Gilbert throws a few scrolls back onto the desk and scowls. "Yeah, and some that joins the Brotherhood later even visit brothels _regularly_ ."

"You mean it's not a regular thing for your people?"

Gilbert pauses.

Arthur stares at him.

"You know what, let's not talk about this anymore." Gilbert tosses the last of the scroll up, and then straightens up. "What the hell are you touching my bible for?"

Arthur shrugs. "Maybe if I read your holy books, I'll understand better about the taboos." He flips a few pages. "Is that a drawing of a dick at the margins -"

Gilbert lunges and slams it shut. "Nope."

Arthur's hands hover, and then he lowers it. It rests on Gilbert's hands, and suddenly Gilbert feels very, _very_ warm. "What's that lump there?"

"Er, what?"

"There." Arthur traces the outlines of the coin where Gilbert's hand presses.

Gilbert heaves a deep breath and stares intently at Arthur. Then he lifts his hands and flips it over, their palms pressed together as he holds Arthur's hands. "I'm going to show you something, and don't you dare laugh or rat on me," he threatens, and tightens his grasp for effect.

Arthur nods seriously. "Don't worry, I'll try not to," he assures, "laugh, that is. I will definitely not tell anyone."

Gilbert thumbs the coin, and feels the nub of his fingers dig against the edge. He won't use his nails - it makes ugly and explicit markings on the leather that he _definitely_ does not want people noticing. The coin slowly shifts towards the opening, and with a final push squeezes out into the open.

There's a long drag of silence. "Did you nick my coins. " Gilbert shrugs. Arthur raises an eyebrow, but does not hesitate in picking up the coin and examining it in his hands, turning it over and squinting at the crest. "Oh. I guess not. This coin is minted in the first year this new series is implemented."

"Really?" Gilbert leans over and peers at the crest. So that are what the weird symbols symbolises. "Anyway, the coin's something special. To me. A charm of sorts from my childhood."

He feels the tremble as Arthur hums in acknowledgement, the gentle vibration of Arthur's throat where Gilbert presses against him; then Gilbert snatches the coin back and straightens up.

They don't talk about it again.

* * *

"You've made me a sinner," Gilbert accuses, rolling over onto his chest. Beside him, Arthur chuckles and nuzzles against Gilbert's waist.

"As an apology, will you like a story?" Arthur's breath ghosts on his skin and it _tickles_. "We've vowed not to divulge any secrets about the Kingdom before we're allowed to leave, but sometimes exceptions can be made."

Gilbert shoots up, the momentum causing the blanket to slip off them both and Arthur shivers. Gilbert reminds himself that not everyone's lived within the Confederation their whole life and that Arthur certainly isn't used to thus winters, as he pulls the blanket back with a murmur of apology. Arthur simply snuggles closer. "You're telling me about the Kingdom?" Gilbert exclaims.

Arthur presses his nose into Gilbert's hips. "Promise you'll keep it a secret?" he whispers, and presses a soft kiss. It makes Gilbert wants to curl his fingers under Arthur's jaws and drag his face up; kiss him hard and senseless until all the softness in them is kissed away. Instead, he buries his fingers in Arthur's hair and slides them through the coarse strands.

Gilbert thinks about the coin in his bible and Arthur lying against him, and he says, "Of course."

* * *

It's in the middle of a storm when Arthur leaves, too.

Gilbert cusses at the rain and the wind that's making it hard to _not_ slip in the dark as he scampers out of the church doors. He can see a faint figure, dark with fluttering ends that are probably Arthur's cloak blown to the side by the wind. "Wait!"

The figure pauses, and Gilbert takes the chance to catch up. He slips, instead, but doesn't fall when the figure lunges forward to catch him. "What are you doing in this weather!" Arthur has to strain his voice to be heard, and Gilbert wonders bitterly about the irony of the sentence. "Are you trying to get yourself sick!"

"You're just going to leave? Just like that?" Gilbert shouts. The howling of the wind muffles the final part of his statement, but he doesn't bother repeating. "Without even a goodbye!"

"I don't do goodbyes!"

"Well, you fucking should! Because I'm not going to let you just leave!" Arthur's still holding on to his arms when Gilbert fishes the coin out. He pulls at one of Arthur's wrist and presses the coin into his palm, presses so hard he's sure that even if Arthur doesn't bleed, it'll leave an imprint that lasts a few hours. "I know you have like a bagful of tens of those coins, but this one is special. Don't you dare fucking lose it."

Arthur stares at the coin and Gilbert's fingers pressing into it. Then he clenches; lifts up both the coin and Gilbert's hand on it, lifts it to his lips to press a kiss on the knuckles. It lasts an eternity and it lasts a second, and Arthur curls his fingers and is gone; both coin and man - the two things Gilbert holds dearest to his heart, vanishes into the shadows and disappears from Gilbert's life as though they have never been there before.

* * *

Father Andrew's blood is still wet under his nails and soaking into his cassock, black that now glints red next to the fires - a caustic mimicry of a description of hell - and the barbarian is standing above him, sneering with a sword raised, and Gilbert wonders if it's too late to pray.

He shuts his eyes as the sword comes swinging down. Winces and braces himself, because it'll hurt, won't it, especially if it isn't a clean cut, like how his Brothers lay on the floor gurgling, their blood spilling onto the scrolls they so carefully copied, red and black flowing into one and everyone is dying dying _dead_ -

The sword doesn't come down. Instead he hears a broken wail and the crunching of bones, feels the glowingly familiar feeling of sticky blood dripping down his skin, and then he opens his eyes something big and blond and _furry_ is standing infront of him.

The thing _shifts_ , its feathered wing spreading outstretched from it, a silver glint blinds Gilbert for a while, and then he sees it. The silver coin tied to a red rope that wraps around the right talon. It's a familiar coin. It's _his_ coin, from all those years ago.

"Did Arthur send you or something?" Gilbert croaks as the gryphon turns, its tail swinging a few men - Gilbert can no longer tell barbarians from Brothers - across the room. "What the hell -"

The gryphon faces him, and Gilbert sees a beaked head and sharp ears and green eyes he never thought he will ever be able to see again.

"Arthur." He pauses. "You're Arthur."

If Gilbert doesn't know better, he'll say the gryphon is _smirking_. Arthur ambles forward, his tail swinging left and right like a - like a _dog_ wagging, and purrs as he nuzzles his beak into Gilbert's raised palm. Then he lowers his neck, his spine curving long and slant.

"You want me to ride you." Gilbert scrunches his eyebrows. "Literally, like in the non-sexual way."

The gryphon heaves slightly. Gilbert thinks Arthur may be laughing, but maybe it's just a gryphon thing and he's jumping to conclusions. He pats the neck and notices how the constant slapping of the gryphon's tail onto the ground scares off the barbarians standing in the distance. Gilbert runs his fingers down the spine onto it's back between the wings, and with a press and a heave he's up riding a _gryphon_.

Arthur beats his arms once; twice, many more times faster and faster, the force making his cassock fly and then they lift into the air and _flying_.

"Wait, what about the others?" Gilbert glances back down and tightens his arms around Arthur's neck. They are rising higher still, the people in the burning church blurring into black spots on orange flames, once so frightening and suffocating now but a gentle heat of a candle. "Arthur!"

Arthur flies higher and faster until the flames fade into the dark, and then they're alone. Now that the adrenaline is gone, the chill finally sinks and nips at Gilbert, settling like an iron weigh on his bones. He shivers; furrows deeper into the feathers, warm himself up from the heat radiating from Arthur, and tries not to think.

Arthur perches at the top of a mountain. It surprises Gilbert that he is _not_ surprised at the choice of location, even though he knows next to nothing about gryphons except that they are mythological creatures that exist only in folklore. He slides off, luckily landing on his feet, and without Arthur's heat the chill bites into his skin again.

It's fascinating to watch the skin breaks and the feathers and furs melt; blend into the more delicate human skin that spreads bigger. The beak and bones twist and flatten, the disturbing crunching of bones as Arthur's body straightens upright, and Arthur _morphs_ back into human.

Gilbert supposes he has seen Arthur naked enough times, but he still blushes like a damned school girl. He blames the years apart.

"You can't save them all." Gilbert jumps when Arthur suddenly speaks. It's intriguing how much one really notices when one actually _looks_ , the way Arthur's eyes glow in the moonlight and how his nails hook slightly at its ends, the way his bones protrude, all sharp angles, in a way that isn't just structure but actual uncanniness. "There's nothing you can do to help."

"But you're a monster," Gilbert protests, quickly amending when Arthur flinches. "Like, not in a bad way, but in an all power _creature of the night_! Mighty and powerful argh! Kind of way. Can't you do something?"

"What are you expecting me to do?"

"Save their lives?"

"And then where will they go?" Arthur does not even look up from the bushes he's rummaging through. "You told me yourself. When people have no other skills to survive, they turn to the church. Where else will they go?"

Gilbert falters. "Then why do you save me?"

Arthur pauses too. The moon shines on his back, and the two gashes on his shoulder blades, where his _wings_ have been, appears particularly red and glistening. "You didn't let me just leave," Arthur says, then pulls out a satchel from a particularly thick part of the undergrowth. He unties it and holds up a cloak; shakes it, then throws it towards Gilbert. "Wear this, the night is cold and long."

Gilbert doesn't argue, and falls asleep leaning against a tree waiting for Arthur to put on his clothes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gryphon in this is based on the Gryphon in Alice in Wonderland (because I thought the personality matches). Setting is a historically-referenced fantasy, because generally doing research after completing half of the fic is a bad idea.


	16. Germany/Canada: Story

Ludwig rubs his palms together and rests his elbows on his lap. He thinks of how, if Marianne is here, she will lean in and poke his cheeks, magically able to avoid scratching him with her manicured nails, and tells him to stop _brooding_.

But Marianne isn't here now. Marianne is in the air on a flight back to France, and she isn't coming back. Which is why Ludwig is here, sitting on a park bench, brooding.

Damn it.

There is a blond sitting beside him, rubbing his palms together too, but he's blowing onto them - doesn't he know that gloves and German winters go well together? The blond then stuffs his fingers into his coat jacket and leans back.

Ludwig normally isn't one for small talk. It's more of a Marianne thing. Marianne is the one chattering and entertaining the guests and hosts and every single person who comes their way, while Ludwig sits to the side nursing a cup of coffee and tries his best to look pretty. Or stoic. The description changes depending on how much of a gossip the other party is.

But Marianne isn't here _now_.

"Hello, so what is your story?" Ludwig asks. The blond's head shoots up, and he blinks at Ludwig. He blinks again, then starts waving his hands flustered in front of him.

"I don't speak German," he blurts in English, and this time it's Ludwig's turn to blink. Well then. That explains quite some things.

"It is alright." English curls weirdly at the tip of his tongue. He wonders how native speakers manage to not bite their tongues by accident. "I was asking for your story."

The blond scrunches his eyebrows. "What?"

"This park is special. Everyone here has a story about why." Ludwig points to an old man scattering bread crumbs by the lake and the flurry of birds that swoops around him. "He used to come here every morning with his wife to feed the birds. Now that she is dead, he still continues to feed them alone.

"That one." Ludwig gestures to the lady reading on the park bench. "She is a lonely girl. After her lover breaks up with her, she starts coming to this park where they met. She still hopes they can get back together."

Matthew nods slowly. "Is this park for people who've lost someone they love?" he asks, fidgeting slightly. "Then I don't think I should be here, because I have no story or heartbreak to share."

"Everyone has a story," Ludwig insists. "Maybe you can start by telling where you are from and why you choose to come to Germany." He pauses and tries to recall the word. "An in - information? No that's not the word. Institution, indro -"

"Introduction?"

Ludwig nods fervently.

The blond laughs and shrugs slightly. "My name is Matthew. I'm from Canada, and I came here to meet an old friend I almost lost contact with. I'm currently waiting for him."

"I have been to Canada before," says Ludwig, "when I was very young. The winters there are much colder than Germany's."

"You went there during winter? Gosh, what are your parents thinking!" The last few words of the sentence are heaved out between chuckles, and Ludwig realises Matthew reminds him a little of Marianne, when she's relaxed and lazing at home with no concerns for her image. Ludwig always love it when Marianne throws her head back and chortles, loud and boisterous, mouth gaping open and her cheeks blushing red and round as her chest heaves, trembling slightly. The whole scene reminds Ludwig of _other_ times, inducing a certain warmth that pools from his chest only to rush further down, and in the next few moments he will scoop Marianne up in his arms and the night will proceed to be _very_ warm and _very_ interesting.

But Matthew isn't Marianne - they aren't even the same gender - and they are in _public_ . "Funny thing, I met my friend during winter as a kid too," Matthew continues, "he's very pale. I actually thought he's a frozen corpse at first and tries to poke his face. Then he suddenly moves and _bites_ me!"

That... sounds strangely familiar. "Go on," Ludwig urges.

"Well, I screamed, and my brother - Alfred - ran over. Alfred, being Alfred, punched my friend and broke his nose, which somehow escalates into a fist fight. Then my friend's _father_ came over with _his_ family while my fathers ran over, and a shouting match or so later all of us are carded to the nearest clinic. My friend and I talked and ended up bonding over Alfred's and our fathers' overreactions."

That _is_ very familiar. "What's your friend's name?" Ludwig asks cautiously, and for the first time since he's sixteen and forced to attend church, prays.

"Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Why?"

Ludwig tries to smile, but he's pretty sure it comes off as a grimace instead. "He is my brother."

"Oh. Oh! What a coincidence -"

"Hey, gosh Mattie, you've grown so much!"

Well shit.

"Oh, and Luddy!" Ludwig buries his face in his hands. "What's my baby brother doing here?"

Ludwig feels Gilbert slings his arms around him, and even without looking he knows his brother is grinning. "I see you two are already well-acquainted, but I'm going to introduce the two of you anyway." Gilbert slaps him on the back. Ludwig tries not to cough. "Mattie, this is my brother Ludwig! Luddy, this is my good ol' friend Matthew! Shake hands and say hi!"

Ludwig finally lifts his head. "I am not seven years old, Brother," he begins, "I do not need you to baby me and guide me in making _friends_."

"You're always my baby brother in my heart," Gilbert _coos_ , oh gosh, and pinches him on his cheeks. Ludwig wishes the ground will swallow him up and shits him out from horizontally across the globe, probably somewhere in the United States, and propels him into outer space, where his brain can proceed to explode and no one will see his increasingly red face. "Where's Marianne, by the way? You normally don't stay out without her."

Way to go, Brother, pop the million dollars question within the first minute of meeting. "We, er," Ludwig eyes Matthew shuffling at the sides, "divorced. She flew back to France today."

The following silence is deafening. He hears a faint, "I'm sorry," from Matthew before Gilbert bursts in. Ludwig is starting to suspect that's how those two's friendship works most of the time. "Woah, woah, hold up. You divorced and didn't tell me! What the hell man, I'm your brother!"

"That reaction is precisely why I did not want to tell you."

"No, Luddy, you know what? I can't believe I didn't figure out when I see you in this park." Gilbert shakes his head. "To make up to you, I'll pay for all the booze tonight! We'll drink the misery away!"

"It's nine in the morning."

"Who cares! Let's go, my fellow minions!"

Gilbert swings an arm around each of their necks and pulls them to his chest, and Ludwig stumbles. He throws a long-suffering glance at Matthew, but when Matthew laughs, shaking against Gilbert's arm, Ludwig sees the redding of cheeks and tears leaking from the corners of Matthew's eyes, and thinks that maybe, this time, something good can work.  


	17. America/Canada: Up

"I don't understand how people bear to do it, you know," says Airman Alfred, "when they see something like this and still bears to drop the bomb."

"Focus, Jones," Matthew replies.

"I mean, just look at it! Up here, everything looks so tiny and small. The houses look like pretty intricate miniature toys that are so popular nowadays, and when you destroy it, it feels like destroying a kid's precious toys."

"So what?" Matthew shrugs, even though he knows Airman Alfred isn't looking at him. "We're just doing our jobs."

"But doesn't it makes you wonder? How can you bear to drop the bombs?"

"Look," Matthew begins, "you can't see the people up here, right? Everyone is so small they are but a speck. They are invisible, so they are insignificant to the big picture. And I'm a good bombardier. I do my job well."

Airman Alfred sighs. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" he says, "gives you an existential crisis about the insignificance of our lives. The world is a big, pretty map, and for the sake of the bigger picture, we tear it up and draw lines on it, over and over and over in different thickness and colour. Then what are we? A name in the archives? Another rotting corpse burning on the ground after we crashed?"

"Don't jinx us," Matthew snarls, and releases the bomb. It hits a pretty red roof as they draws away, flames exploding in furious yellows and vibrant orange flowers. The smoke coils up into the sky, but Matthew likes to think of it as a rope ladder into the sky to heaven, and the souls from the house are climbing up on it, climbing out of the burning and the flames that are reminiscent of hell on earth - induced by him! - and then they'll be free from this misery war.

But Matthew tries not to think about it. He's a bombardier, and he'll do his job well.

He drops another bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel: [18\. Fallen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12245684)


	18. America/Canada: Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [17\. Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12245600)

"Mattie, Mattie, wake up."

Matthew groans and turns over. "What is it, Alfred?"

Airman Jones stares at him, eyes wide and glossy, and Matthew immediately sits up. "We are going to hell," Airman Jones says, and he's smiling, oh gosh. "We'll fall from grace."

"What the hell are you talking about!" Matthew whispers furiously. He glances out of the tent, only to realise he is staring at concrete instead of canvas. Then he remembers: the war is over for years. "We won't crash. Not anymore."

"No, we will get shot down, and we'll fall from the skies while our wings burn." Matthew notices the cross clenched tightly in Alfred's hands, and he _gets it_. He understands this too well, after every other missions watching their allies' planes shot out of the sky. "Fall into hell where we'll burn!"

"It's a dream, Alfred. The war is over." _Not in Alfred's head, the war will never be over._ "Go back to sleep."

Matthew touches Alfred gingerly on his right shoulder. When Alfred doesn't flinch, Matthew tightens his hand into a grasp, and gently pushes Alfred down.

Alfred's eyes are still wide and unseeing as he lies on the bed. Matthew tries to pride away the cross, but Alfred's grip only tightens. "Sleep, Alfred," Matthew tries.

"We'll burn," Alfred - no, Airman Jones replies.

Matthew sighs, pulls the blanket over them, and goes to sleep.  


	19. 19. Denmark/Seychelles:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preben Anderson = Denmark

Michelle doesn't like green.

She likes red and she likes orange, she likes gold and hazel and bronze - vibrant bursts and shining bright - and blue and purple and pink and the million shades of gentler hues inbetween. But she doesn't like green. She's seen green her whole life, and she's sick of all the greens on the little island she calls _home_ and _boring_ that other silly tourists call _paradise_ and _beautiful_.

Which is why she isn't impressed when she (treading knee-deep in snow while wrapped in so many layers she feels - no, looks like a sushi) asks, "Where are you taking me, Anderson?" and Preben answers, "To see the evergreens!"

No. Not impressed at all.

"Why can't we stay in the city," Michelle whines, "with central heating and great lightings and many pretty places to shop at."

"Where's your adventurous spirit?" Preben laughs and that shuts Michelle up.

... Until three steps later Michelle trips and falls flat into the snow.

"I'm not getting up _ever_." Her voice is muffled. "It's so _cooold_."

She feels Preben wraps his arm - softly thick after the padding of layers - around her waist, and lifts her up until she's in the air. The imprint of her figure is too big and too deep. "Come on, it's just a kilometer or so away."

Michelle _kicks_ until Preben lets her down. Then she turns around and holds out her arms. "Piggyback me."

The moment of silence _drags_. "... What?"

"Piggyback me," Michelle repeats. "I'm cold and miserable. You're tall and happy. You piggyback me. I don't want to walk anymore."

Preben laughs again; a low rumble, and Michelle tries not to let him realise how the sound makes her insides _melt_. "Gosh, you're so cute." He shakes his head. "But no matter how much you try to dally, we're going to see the evergreens. Let's go!"

Then he has the nerve to walk off _without_ her. Michelle waddles to catch up. "I don't understand what's so good about the evergreens," she admits, "they're just green trees! You see them all summer anyway. It's _boring._ "

"Ah, this is where you're wrong." Preben wags his finger in front of her nose, and Michelle struggles to resist the urge to bite off that damned finger. "This is special. You just have to see it to appreciate its beauty." He softens, and it's that smile again, the gentle doting kind that makes Michelle's stomach twists and the reason that makes her fall head over heels (while hanging off a tree in a dress screaming... Erm.) in love with him in the first place. "Come on, do it for me. Please."

Well. She can't say no to that. She can't say no to Preben at all when he goes all soft and sweet on her. Damn. "Then you have to hold my hand on the way there," she relents, ignoring the heat rising up her neck. "I don't want to fall again."

Preben chuckles, and intertwines their fingers together. The thick layers prevent it from anything but an awkward grasp of hands that serves absolutely no function in being able to _hold_ on to someone in case she, you know, actually falls, but their hands are clasped together anyway, and it makes Michelle smile.

Green or not, perhaps it's not so bad, if Preben is happy and here with her. 


	20. Belarus/Hungary: Contrast

Natasha knows privilege. She knows it very well. She knows it when her mother chides Liz, brown-haired, wide-shouldered, _half-Hearts_ Liz, everytime she makes a mistake, but looks the other way when _Natasha_ is the one who made the mistake.

It's the power of blood, she thinks, the blood flowing in hers and her mother's veins that trickles differently with different particles and patterns - and perhaps even colours? - in Liz's vessels, that these weird prejudice, these weird standards exist. Liz must do things right, must Natasha must be able to do _better_ in the end without trying, and if Natasha messes up, it's ok, because she's her mother's daughter, and she is to be _loved_.

Sometimes Natasha wonders if Liz is a better daughter, strong and fiery with determination in her eyes and a sneer on her lips whenever someone says she _can't_. Mother likes Liz, Natasha knows she does, but the blood runs strong and when her mother snides at Liz about table manners while Natasha plays with her food, Natasha doesn't say anything because _why, oh why, does she want to put herself in the same position and be scolded_ _?_

When Liz becomes Queen of Clubs, Mother congratulates her, and weeps tears of joy. But Natasha knows, Mother may be happy for Liz, but she's bitter; bitter still, because Vanya, dearest brother dearest, far away in boarding school, is supposed to be King alongside _Natasha_ instead. They are supposed to rule Clubs _together_ , a siblings duo - not with the outsider _Liz_.

But Liz is glorious with her sword as she stands on the balcony, grinning down at the crowd that both jeers and cheers as her hair billows behind her, long skirts of her dress fanning around and cloak flying and she looks _majestic_. It makes Natasha's throat dries and something in her chest (or is it her stomach?) clenches, so Natasha slips away into Liz's old room into the shadows, where she belongs, no matter what Mother thinks.

She lies on the floor. The room is cold, because it's late autumn, and no one lives here anymore, not after Liz left. But the perfume still lingers, faint and powdery, the scent of light flour and sweet spring flowers, the only kind that Liz is willing to wear because it's subtle enough, gentle enough that it doesn't permeates but lingers, gently, like dew drops in the morning, only noticeable if one knows to _look_.

Natasha inhales deeply, and cover her eyes with her arms as her shoulders shake. _I miss you_ , Natasha thinks, thinks about Vanya standing regal at the court, Liz by his arms, at the far, far, _far_ end of the hall, while Natasha stands at the side and watches beside the walls. Natasha thinks about the way Liz's skirt crinkles when Mother wrinkles her nose at the baker boy who married a Diamonds girl and Liz clenches her hands in silent rage. Natasha thinks about the time when she's lying on Liz's lap, feeling the wind lulls her to sleep, and in the midst of drowsiness Liz leans down and presses a soft kiss to her lips.

 _I_ _miss you_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel at [21\. Reunion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12245795)


	21. Belarus/Hungary: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [20\. Contrast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5190890/chapters/12245774)

Natasha is a giggle and a chirpy skip when Liz sees her.

"Vanya!" she calls, and latches herself onto Ivan's arm.

  
Liz supposes she  _should_ allow them this rare moment of siblings bonding, when they are finally alone in  _private_ and manners don't matter because they are no longer royals and civilians but  _family_ .   


But. Well. She refuses to call it jealousy, but the unhappy churning in the pits of her belly reminds her very much that it _is_ jealousy, because _Natasha hasn't seen Ivan in years but she sees me almost everyday for the past few years; why is she closer to him?!_

Which is petty. Really. But then Ivan is trying to shrug her away and looking abso-fucking-lutely uncomfortable, so Liz swoops down to seize her opportunity. "What, no hug for me too?" she taunts, and feels her heart flutters when Natasha _looks_ at her.

"I miss you too, Liz," she says, and Liz hopes her disappointment at Natasha's mellower reaction doesn't show on her face. "It's good to see you."

Natasha unwraps herself from Ivan's arm - finally! - and takes a few steps back. "Anyway, Mama probably wants to see you too! Wait here, I'll go get her and Ira."

Natasha slips away as suddenly as she comes, and Liz resists the urge to step on Ivan's foot when he shudders. "You don't look happy," she notes instead.

"Ah." Ivan rubs the back of his neck. "It's just that... there are _rumours_ , after Natasha's actions, about her... affection, shall we say, towards me. And I wouldn't like to encourage it."

The response makes Liz's blood boils and her fingers clench, because Natasha is Natasha and Ivan is her _brother_ but he relents to rumours that doesn't even come _close_ to who Natasha _is_.

"And I supposed you believe them?"

Ivan hesitates, and then he looks away, and oh Liz feels the anger bubbling up her chest. "She's very clingy."

Liz doesn't punch him, because a Queen can't punch his King, even if he solely deserves it. But when Natasha comes back, grin so wide it splits half her face, Liz tucks her _away_ from Ivan and by her _own_ side instead, a smile and an affectionate hug and whispers slipped in during dinner and after, and feels it when Natasha _melts_ into her side.

Ivan stares after them with a frown marring his face, but Natasha doesn't even _notice._ Liz marks this as a silent victory.


	22. Rome/Ancient Greece: Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random plot line generator: "An aging secret agent is ostracised for an unprovoked attack."  
> Guess who just watched Spectre?
> 
> Julius = Ancient Rome  
> Iva = Ancient Greece

**ostracise  
** ˈɒstrəsʌɪz/  
 _verb_

  1. exclude from a society or group.
  2. (in ancient Greece) banish (an unpopular or overly powerful citizen) from a city for five or ten years by popular vote.



 

 

* * *

 "I can't believe you!" 

The slap stings, and Julius stumbles, a hand on his cheeks as he tries to clear the sparks in his vision. "Iva..." 

"Don't you 'Iva' me!" she roars. "After what you did... How could you!" 

The ringing in his ear intensifies. "It was inevitable." 

"It was _unprovoked_!" She paces away from him. "Do you know what the whole office is saying about you? That you're old and rash and running high on your licence to kill! That Rome may be great but he has _fallen_." 

The accusation rings, echoes, and Iva is panting from the loud declaration, her chest heaving prettily and Julius wishes he can just push her down and kiss her senseless and make her understand the attack is _necessary_. 

He doesn't. 

"Germania has to go," he tries to reason. "He's a waiting time-bomb. You know it, I know it, the higher-ups know it. They're just waiting for an opportunity, and by then it'll be too late." 

"That doesn't mean you can just _barge_  into his house and shoot him in front of his _grandsons."_

"I thought they were out-"

"You thought, you think, you assume _everything_ , Julius," she hisses, and suddenly she's too close, her hands fisting in his collar and Julius can see all the wrinkles and the furrows, every tensed muscle and faint splotches on her face. It hits him, so suddenly and so inappropriately, just how old they are, that these little marks and creases are visible despite the make-up Iva has slapped on. "Why can't you just - for once, just - cooperate and _listen._ " 

Julius covers her hands with his, and tugs, gently, until their hands hang loosely between their chest. "It'll be fine, Iva," he says. 

"It's not," she mutters bitterly, and then she's pushing away, stepping back, away _away_. "They voted you out."

_What_? "No one wants you back," Iva continues, enunciating each syllables slowly, "I'm here to confiscate your equipments, and inform you that if you didn't come back to collect your belongings, it'll be properly disposed."

"Wait, no, you - they can't do this. Where will I go? I've no records, no identification, nothing!"

"You should've thought about this before doing what you did."

"Iva!" 

"It doesn't matter who you ask too. No one will be willing to talk to you. You went too far this time, Rome, and Germania's grandsons will come for you one day - they told me themselves." She looks up at him, and Julius feels this throat dries at the disappointment in her eyes. "So you better run, before any of your past catch up with you." 

The envelope slips into his coat, smooth and hidden, as Iva leans in to kiss him. It is soft, it is warm, and it is _longed for_  the moment she pulls away and stares at him one last time. Julius tries to imprint her image into his brain; wavy brown hair with grey roots, determined eyes with faint crow feet at its edges, strong nose and the hardened line of her lips down to the curves of her body and the edges of her elbows, the slant of her thighs - every single corner of her, beautiful Agent Greece, wonderful lover Iva, _her._

And then she turns and leaves, and Julius knows he will never see her again.


	23. Russia: Sound(less)

Silence. It's a worm, a stench, permeates through pores; a disgusting parasite that clings, sucks one dry and then coughs you out gurgling.

It's awkward, it lingers, it strains. It stares at him across the room with apathy shining in its eyes and shuts him away, building a glass wall, isolating the warmth and fun that is _others_ from _him_.

"Why do your films have so many silent moments?" they ask, wide-eyed and curious and bored all at once, "awkward conversations, uncomfortable silence. Why?"

And the silence is back, hanging over their heads, and he thinks of guillotines, of huge swords and executioner's knives. He thinks of awkward elbows on buses, of taking up too much space and taking too long, being too tall and being too big, of _dumb, stupid, slow, fat;_ fights behind the school and punches in alleys, the silence afterwards interspersed with painful gasps and ugly sobbing. Then he shrugs.

"I don't know," he says. And there's that.  


	24. America/England: A Little Unconventional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random prompt generator: A psychiatrist borrows a talking parrot.

"Look Arthur, please lend me Percival."

"No."

"Please, it's incredibly important."

Arthur sighs, and crosses his arms. Percival shuffles its feathers and squawks indignantly at the movement. "Why will you need a fucking  _parrot_  to treat your patient?"

Alfred grins and shrugs. "Sorry, can't tell. Patient confidentiality."

Percival adjusts its position and chants, "Fucking. Patient confidentiality. Fucking fucking, fucking patient."

Arthur grabs some weird jelly-like stick from the table and shove it under Percival's beak. Alfred tries not to wince as Percival gobbles it up. "What is that?"

"The treat?" Arthur pats his parrot on the beak. "Trade secret, can't tell. Wizard  _confidentiality_ , you must understand."

"Really, Arthur? Come on! It's just a day! I swear my patient won't try to eat your parrot, or harm it -"

"Him."

"Fine,  _him,_ in any way, and it'll help with my patient's progress a lot, so please?" It always works when he's young, and Alfred hopes age hasn't dulled the effectiveness of the puppy-eyes that always get Arthur weak-kneed and relenting.

Although, now that he's older, Alfred's been told that his expressions are capable of making people weak-kneed in the much more  _swoon-worthy_  variety. He throws in a pouting  _please?_  for good measure.

Arthur's frown melts into pursed lips into a frustrated sigh as he averts his eyes away from Alfred. "Fine, but really, what will a psychiatrist ever  _needs_  to borrow a parrot for, I will never understand." He leans under the table to grab a bronze wired cage.

"In you go," Arthur mutters as Percival hops off his shoulders and flaps into the cage. "Now," Arthur says, turning to Alfred, "if anything happens to him, I don't need to kill you, Percival will end you  _himself_ .

"And," he pauses, smirking, "he is really quite obnoxious, and don't come whining to me if he mimics the wrong words. Or if he makes a fuss during the whole trip to your clinic. Or at night when you're trying to sleep. I don't control his actions, but he can be bribe with a few snacks."

"You never miss any opportunity to make a sale, don't you?"

Arthur opens a jar of some slimy,  _moving_  green things that strongly resembles slugs, scoop some up in a wooden spoon, and splats it down onto Alfred's open, albeit unwilling palm.  _Then_  he fishes out a spare jar from one of his five dimensional  _sentient_ drawers.

"I'll add the bill to your name." Arthur grins as he pats Alfred on the back.

Alfred groans. "How much this time?"

"A vial of broken-hearted tears, three echoes of a baby's laughter, seven coppers, and," he says, and pauses, pulling Alfred down by his collar, "a kiss for deposit, which I shall be collecting  _now_ ."

The kiss is brief, but warm, very warm. Alfred is slightly dazed when Arthur pulls away, to which the latter chuckles, pats Alfred on the head, and gently pushes him out of the apartment. Arthur folds Alfred's fingers around the handle of the cage, and then presses the jar onto Alfred's other hands. "Don't look so shocked. See you, your list of debts are getting longer," Arthur teases, and slams the door shut, leaving a blushing psychiatrist with a racing heart gaping as Percival squawks, "Kiss! Kiss!"


	25. Switzerland + Germany: A Little Grudge

"You're going to fence up your entire nation from the sea?"

Vash does not need to look to know that Ludwig is walking towards him. "I do not want my people to get hurt." He flicks his finger, and sniggers when the humans jump aside as the land shakes and protrudes; a tiny rise in the middle of what once is a clearing. "They look towards me for guidance, and as their God of this tiny island, I shall protect them as long as they worship me."

Ludwig stops beside him. "But you will sabotage their means of exploring, and reaching out. And what if the enemies land? High grounds are advantageous, and by barricading your entire island with insurmountable cliffs you're _trapping_ your people."

"I do have a port. Two actually, on each ends of the island." Vash sighs, and evokes a mountain that rises from the center of the island. The whole isle trembles in a minuscule mimic of an earthquake, mud and houses sliding downwards and people yelling as they grab on to the nearest structure, and- 

And the mountain stops rising, the whole island a very low hill towered over by blocks of cliffs.

"I ran out of power," Vash explains at Ludwig's raised eyebrows, " There, if they live on the hill they'll have the upper ground advantage."

"Then they will try to reach the cliffs _from_  your hill."

"They won't." Vash snickers. "I'll smite them."

Ludwig doubles back; scrutinises at Vash as though trying to figure something out. "If I hadn't known better, I'll say you did what you do for a personal vendetta rather than for your people."

"You're not wrong. The Sea is a jerk and I want him as far away from me as possible."

It is almost funny to watch Ludwig's face twist from confusion to paled horror to apologetic as realisation dawns. "I'm sorry, I forgot you were once _human_."

Vash grins, all teeth and feeling the power surges up his chest the same way the very anger is now coursing through him. "The sea took her, and refuses to give her back. Even though I am now a _God_. He could have allowed me my sister's _soul_ , as a nymph perhaps. But he didn't."

Ludwig shuffles. He clasps his hands awkwardly behind his back. "I'm sure the Sea has his reasons."

"I'm sure he just wants to flaunt his power to deter potential threats to his authority," Vash retorts bitterly, "but no worries, even I won't mess with someone Death favours. I rather enjoy my immortality, after all."


	26. Russia/Prussia: Outsiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mentions of alcoholism and bullying.
> 
> Irina "Ira" - Ukraine  
> Natalya "Natasha" - Belarus

They became friends because they have none.

Ivan is too big for the other kids, too intimidating, so he wanders. He finds Gilbert sitting on a broken wall at an abandoned playground, Gilbert's paleness making him look like a ghost haunting a childhood memory. One of his sneakers is hanging on the big toe that is sticking out of a hole in his sock.

"What are you looking at?" Gilbert snarls, and the cigarette between his teeth wobbles.

"Can I join you?" Ivan says, "but I can't climb the wall. I'll probably fall over."

Gilbert laughs, then, his cigarette falling out and onto his tattered jeans that is only holding on together by strands. Ivan will later realise the jeans are never meant to be _fashionable_ , but for now his eyes simply linger on the slips of flesh. "You can sit on the sand."

Ivan sits. He pulls his scarf onto his lap first, though; wool and sand doesn't mix well together. The sand is hot enough to burn through his pants and warm his thighs, but it isn't _unbearable_.

"You're sweating." Gilbert states. It doesn't sound like he is looking for a reply, so Ivan simply shrugs, and they sit together while Gilbert smokes his next cigarette and Ivan listens to the other's breathing.

* * *

The next time Ivan sees Gilbert is behind the school, where the latter is slouching against the wall.

He only notices the bruise and the blood when it is too late to turn away.

"Back off," Gilbert snarls, and Ivan vaguely thinks of their first encounter. He walks closer instead, inching slowly until he's kneeling in front of Gilbert.

Ivan doesn't ask if it hurts. He knows from experience that it _does_ \- hurt that is; hurts like a damned bitch. Ignoring Gilbert's questioning glare, Ivan fishes into his pocket and dumps the packet onto Gilbert's lap.

"Cigarettes. I pocketed it from some kid, so don't go around flaunting it, ok?"

Gilbert eyes the cigarettes, then eyes him, and his lips - split as they are - stretch into the biggest grin Ivan has ever seen. "Attaboy."

* * *

"A little higher!"

"...You're not exactly light."

"Come on, just a little more!"

The cat on the branch _whimpers_ as Gilbert flails his arms. With a yelp, it jumps onto Gilbert's face and then he is falling backwards with his legs kicking Ivan's _chest_ ; the world tilting backwards -

The pain knocks out Ivan's breath a little, and he distantly hears a groan and a purr as the world spins. He blinks a few times, trying to get back to his senses, when he notices two knees sandwiching his face and the very _compromising_ location his head is lying on.

Ivan _jumps_ , shooting up so quickly the world spins once more; Gilbert immediately curls up into a ball, his hands covering his crotch as he mutters something about _manhood_ and _more pain than it's worth_.

"I'm never letting you sit on my shoulders again," Ivan affirms, not at all sorry for the fall, because _Gilbert you're the one who dragged me down with_ you, _you_ deserve _the pain_.

"Meow!"

Both of their attention snaps to the cat. Right at Gilbert's head, the cat is rubbing itself against Gilbert's hair, and _oh_. "Gilbert, I think it likes you."

"Well I _don't_ , because I'm in agony thanks to it," Gilbert grumbles, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. "Shoo, shoo, go away."

He flaps at the cat, but the cat only furrows deeper into his hair. Ivan sighs and steps forward; fishes the cat into his arms as Gilbert stumbles to his feet. "It's probably going to follow you home," Ivan teases as he sets the cat back onto the ground. It scrambles towards Gilbert and starts rubbing its face onto his shin. "See?"

Gilbert grimaces, tugging his shirt down as he glances over at Ivan. The cloth tears at the safety pins holding them together. Gilbert swears. "I can't even properly look after myself, how will I look after a cat?"

Ivan picks up the cat again. It peers over his shoulder to stare at Gilbert, but quickly settles back into Ivan's arms, purring as it curls up satiated. "I guess it likes me too?"

"Then you look after it," Gilbert decides. "Hey, no worries, I'll bring over some treats when I visit."

* * *

 

Sir Fuzzyball Great Inquisitor of the Land of Kaesh'myl'tia, or more commonly known as Fuzzy, purrs as Ivan rubs its back, its grey fur so puffy it makes it look twice its size.

Or maybe it _is_ that big. It certainly weighs so. Ivan blames Ira, who's currently feeding it scraps even though _Fuzzy just had his dinner_.

Ivan scrunches his nose at Gilbert. To his dismay, Gilbert simply snickers. Asshole. "Like master, like pet, right?" Gilbert taunts.

Ira turns around with a frown with her arms akimbo. "Gilbert, you may be Vanya's friend-"

"-only friend, actually," Ivan supplies. Gilbert cringes. "Sadly."

"...but that doesn't mean you should be _mean_."

Gilbert raises both hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine, it's just a joke. Ivan knows I don't mean it, right, _Vanya_?"

Ivan ignores the way the endearment makes his stomach coils. "You suck at jokes."

"Hey!"

* * *

 

"I'm moving out." Gilbert is shivering despite the layers of blanket Ivan piles onto him. "I can't take it anymore. His addiction is killing me, and it's killing Luddy."

Ivan pushes a mug of hot chocolate into Gilbert's hands. "Drink."

Nearby, Ira and Natasha huddles around little Ludwig, their dormant motherly instincts being invoked full force after the miserable sight the brothers have turned up in: drenched and trembling in the autumn night's rain, clutching each other's hands like it's their only lifeline before the wind blows them into pieces, Gilbert smiling a broken smile in front of their doorsteps croaking, "Surprise?"

"Have you tried calling any welfare hotlines, or something? Gotten external help?" Ivan asks, softening his voice so that he doesn't sounds too intrusive.

Gilbert takes a sip of the hot chocolate before putting it down. He shakes his head. "They will take us away, and I'm not risking separating with my brother," Gilbert explains, "We've no next of kin. Plus, it's not like we hadn't tried anything at all. We even signed him up for support groups. Pushed him for counselling. He tried quitting, but he fails, every single damned time. And it gets worse. Yesterday I tripped on an uneven floorboard, and you know what I found out? Alcohol bottles below the floor, Vanya, a whole fucking stash!

"I'm tired, Vanya." Gilbert's shoulders droop, and Ivan is there for him when Gilbert buries his head against the crook of the other's neck. If Ivan feels his collar getting wet, or he feels tremors on his palm where it is rubbing small circles on Gilbert's back, Ivan surely doesn't say anything.

"You can stay with us," Ivan murmurs, and smiles into Gilbert's hair when Fuzzy pads over, squeezing between their bodies.

He doesn't know how long he spends, gently rocking Gilbert as the rain patters outside the window. The last thing Ivan hears is a quiet, "Thank you," from Gilbert, before they both drift off to sleep in each other's embrace.  


	27. France/Spain + Prussia: Marginal Differences

Francis is from the country of love and he is from the country of passion. It should be easy, being together, passion boosting love and love nurturing passion, a relationship build to last, bright and beautiful.

Except it isn't.

Passion can fizzle and love can be misplaced.

Like, when it comes to the size of the wedding. Francis wants something small yet sophisticated, a classic wedding in a cathedral but with much better decor, glass candlesticks and expensive china plates. The colour scheme shall be ivory white with a tad of red, and the wedding will be in early spring, when it is still chilly and the colours tame.

Antonio, on the other hand, wants something big and grand, inviting from their friends and families to their extended families and friends of extended families and plus-ones or - or anyone, really, as long as they are by some twisted extensive way connected to a member of the family. He agrees to the cathedral, with its golden walls and flitted sun rays, but he yearns for the heat and the rousing energy of the crowd, traditional draperies and colours as vibrant and diverse as the midsummer they shall be holding it in.

Francis sniffs his nose and says no. Antonio's eyes darken. And then they turn to  _Gilbert_ , because he's the  _other one_  in their Trio, (even though two of them went to get hitched, like what the hell? What about him! Whose house will he crash at now after Ludwig kicks him out for date night?) and make him Best Man cum wedding planner cum mediator cum everything else and Gilbert can't say  _no._

"Look, at the very least, decide on a time," Gilbert says, kneading his forehead. He doesn't want this. He can't deal with this. He's  _German_ , and even with two Romance friends, that does  _not_  mean he'll suddenly grow a romantic  _bone_. "Why not compromise, and choose late spring? Early summer? Liz will be glad to help you with the latest spring/summer fashion she's been squealing to me."

"It's too bright," Francis scoffs just as Antonio answers, "It's not sunny enough."

Gilbert inhales deeply. "Alright, never mind, we'll sort that out later. Now, which  _country_  do you two want to hold the wedding? Like, if Toni really invites half a country over-" Francis glares. Toni blinks and smiles not-so-innocently. "-then it's rather unreasonable to expect all your families in Europe to fly over to America."

Francis shakes his head. "That's too much unnecessary fuss. We'll have it in America. We'll just invite people who we care about and focus more on other much more important things."

"What if I care about everyone-"

"Then you have to decide who you care  _more_  about."

_Oh my fucking God. Did he just-_

"No." Antonio crosses his arms. "I want a wedding in Spain. Maybe at one of the suburbans."

"If we're going Europe, we _should_ go France instead, they have much more suitable aesthetics."

Antonio rounds up on Francis. "You-"

"Ok, ok!" Gilbert yells. "Let's do Venice instead. Classic romantic location with  _ample_  of cathedrals. Or Germany too-" Both heads turn to glare at him. Gilbert raises his arms in surrender. "Fine, so what's the final decision?"

They both shrug.

Gilbert closes his eyes, tilting his head up and conducts some deep breathing exercises. He manages an impressive seven seconds, before he screams, fingers itching to strangle, and stomps off to find a can of beer to help him get through this.


	28. Belarus/Hungary: Huntresses

Liz has seen many wild things in her life, hunting ogres and wayward heroes for her Lady, but _nothing_ will prepare her for what she sees that day.

The doe centaur stands regal in the woods, back straight as the filtered strays of light casts her skin aglow. When she moves to a tree, her hair swishes around her, and it makes Liz thinks of the willows by the lake, graceful and soft as the doe stretches up. She is made of smooth lines and gentle curves, elegance personified like her more animalistic brethren. It's so beautiful, so ethereal, Liz doesn't dare to even breathe.

Then the doe turns to look at her, and Liz is enraptured.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't stab you right now," the doe threatens.

Liz blinks. Then she smiles, like the foolishly enamoured (or lovesick or infatuated or whatever you call it, depending on whether you're a forty-year-old man with daughters or a seventeen-year-old teenager) huntress she is, and says, "Hi beautiful."

The dagger misses by an inch. Liz gets a name and a date.

* * *

She leaves early before her next hunt so that she can make a detour to see the doe. _Natalya_ , the doe has said, glaring menacingly even though the effect is _almost_ ruined by the red on her cheeks.

Then again, Liz hunts goblins for breakfast.

The name rolls of her tongue smooth and silky, and that's why Liz decides to coerce the friendly neighbouring smith (who in all honestly wishes to simply be left alone in his cave) to build an orb with a miniature Skyward Waterfall in it. The lush liquid glistens faintly orange as it rises up, before dipping into a steady stream that disappears behind similarly orange-tinted clouds.

"Is this a sunset, or a sunrise?" Natalya asks, when she finally trusts Liz enough to even _approach_ the orb. It hangs off a chain so that Natalya can wear it as a necklace, if she so wishes too. After all, centaurs are supposed to have a weakness for pretty jewelry, right?

"It can be anything you want to be," Liz says, pressing the orb into Natalya's hands.

Natalya smiles then, rare and small and so very sweet, and Liz feels heat pulses through her chest. "I'll treasure it then."

* * *

There are canaries.

There are canaries sleeping on Natalya's back.

  
Liz supposes it's a nature thing, animals coexisting together in a surprising feat of harmony, leaning against each other as they succumb to the ultimate weakness of  _sleep_ , but it is just  _too_ adorable. Natalya is struggling to remain still and not bolt when Liz emerges from the bushes wide-eyed and smirking, because how will anyone have the heart to disturb those sleeping balls of feathers?   


Liz tiptoes over, stepping lightly so that the leaves won't crinkle, until she's standing next to Natalya. Natalya's eyebrows are furrowed when Liz subsequently plops down, legs crossed. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

Liz pats her chest. "You can lie on me if you're tired of sitting upright. It won't wake that canary on your shoulder too."

Natalya bites her lips, her eyes darting from Liz's smile to the tiny fluff on her shoulder, and apparently her muscles must be really sore, because the next thing Liz realises Natalya is burying her head into the crook of Liz's neck and her bare body is pressing against her -

Liz never dislikes her trusty leather huntress attire as much as she does now.

* * *

Natalya now trusts her enough to let her  _pat_ _her flank_ , and  _oh gosh, isn't this exhilarating?_   


Liz rubs rosin on her bow as she leans against Natalya, the latter playing with the arrows scattered on the clearing. "I would've thought, as a deer, you won't like arrows."

"I'm not just a deer. I'm also a centaur." The arrow falls back onto its pile with a sharp _clink_. "Shouldn't someone like you know that my kind prefers fruits, grains, or mushrooms - although I personal don't like them - and the likes?"

Liz's response is cut off when something small and perky is shoved into her mouth. Her instinct teaches her to spit it out immediately, but Natalya's body is shifting lazily and Liz hasn't heard anyone _approach_ after all.

She chews it.

The juice bursts in her mouth, sour and tangy and the slightest hint of sweetness. "If you're nice to the birds they sometimes offer you gifts," Natalya explains as Liz swallows. It's only then that Liz notices the beady eyes staring at her, its blue body hopping off Natalya's palm.

"Thanks," Liz tells the bird, and she doesn't know if the bird understands her, but it chirps thrice before flying off.

* * *

"I'm a wise and strong creature," Natalya moans, before her head slams back down on Liz's lap, "I'm invincible."

"Quite." Liz sighs and runs a finger along the doe's hairline. "But even the strongest, fastest, smartest, mightiest God get the sniffles sometimes."

Natalya whimpers. Liz has been on her usual visits to see the doe, when she sees Natalya resting her head on a chopped tree trunk. When Natalya finally lifts her head from her arms, her face has been flushed and her eyes misted, and Liz immediately swoops into action.

Natalya groans again and this time Liz tilts her chin up and pours the water from the canteen. The water flows slow and steady, but some droplets still ends up trickling down her cheek.

It is _supposed_ to be gross, the way Natalya wipes her face into Liz's garments, but it's instead oddly _endearing_. With a grab on her cheeks and a wipe at the edge of her lips with a thumb, Liz mutters, "There," as Natalya stares up at her, eyes wide but wet and face childishly squashed, and _oh gosh_ Liz wants to hug her and never let her go.

(When she's finally recovered, Natalya pushes Liz against a tree and snarls, "That never happened."

The dagger is only a tremble away from impaling into the area between her eyes, but Natalya looks so fiercely beautiful, so gorgeously savage, grinding teeth and burning eyes and the faintest dab of red across her cheeks, that Liz smiles and whispers, "Of course, you're such a wise and strong creature after all."

Natalya stabs the dagger into the bark next to Liz's head and stomps off without all the daintiness a doe should have.)

* * *

 

The bear's head hang ominously down from Natalya's back, its jaws hanging open in a silent roar as it stares blindly forward.

Then again, the dead can't see.

"It's getting chillier these days. I don't want to be called unaware." The autumn colours are almost all gone too, the trees standing bare and the ground covered in shades all the way from orange to brown to red. Liz herself dons a layer of fluffy wool, and a few more weeks will see her pulling out her raccoon hat. "The green coloured breed," she preens, "one of the rarest to hunt down."

"Show me then," Natalya says, " when the time comes."

And when the temperature dips, and snow starts to pile, Liz comes in her raccoon hat and a silver sable scarf tucked under her arms. Natalya waits for her at the clearing as per usual, the bear head now covering her head as a hood and her arms are shielded in its paws. Then Liz's gaze drops and _oh_.

Between her breasts, glowing faintly, is the orb Liz has gifted her.

Natalya follows her stare. "It's warm. Like a summer sunrise. Or sunset. I still can't decide." Liz shakes her head, but can't stop the smile creeping across her face. She hurries closer, grabbing both of Natalya's hands in hers.

"I've something for you," she says as she pulls out the sable scarf. Natalya blinks as Liz wraps it around her. The doe buries her face into it after Liz is done, rubbing the fur onto her nose.

  
"It's so soft," she - and dare Liz say -  _squeals_ . The next thing Liz knows, Natalya is hugging her, squeezing her so tightly she can barely  _breathe_ . "Thank you. For all your gifts." She pauses. "And stuff."   


Liz wonders if _stuff_ includes the time she's sick, or if Natalya is still adamantly denying the event's existence. But then Natalya is beaming for the first time ever since they met and is it possible for one's heart to beat this fast?

"Anything for you," Liz replies, and it takes all her willpower not to kiss Natalya there and then.

* * *

 

It is as though after that encounter, something about their relationship has changed. Liz knows  _what_ , she always has an inkling for this sort of things. But she ignores the way Natalya's eyes glint with something  _more_ , and the way her hands linger longer each time contact happens. She'll wait, because a deer can be so easily spooked, can't they?

Wait for the deer to approach, and don't make sudden movements. She's a good huntress. She remembers.

... Even if Natalya keeps on offering her trinkets with constellations and stars on them. "Astrology is something my people believe in. And fate." Natalya is looking at her strangely intensely after the last word, and Liz wonders if she's probing. Testing the waters, see if it's safe enough to plunge in and drop the question.

"I don't know about fate, but I thank fate for letting me meet someone as beautiful as you," Liz answers, and the blush on Natalya's face is definitely not _just_ from the cold. She wrings her hands shyly together, before she inflates slightly, straightening her back in confidence and glee.

(An interlude:

Liz barges back into the Artemis' Hall, throwing the doors open with a loud slam before stomping her way through.

"Girls, I need help!" she declares. "What do you do when you like, want to kiss a centaur?"

The silence is _painful_ , until someone croaks a "What?" and the entire hall swarms around her in an instant.

It has been the most embarrassing two hours of her life, and she spills almost everything about whatever the _thing_ that is going on between Natalya and her, but she gets a few practices and advices about how to be _smooth_ and handle tender deer feelings, so it should be ok.

She hopes.)

Liz grins at Natalya, and leans in to tuck a stray hair away. "Really glad," she adds, and leans forward to rest her forehead against Natalya's. The doe's eyes are impossibly wide but beautiful so up close, and Liz can feel her breath, wispy and warm against her lips, and -

And then Natalya jumps backward, before composing herself. "I - erm." She takes a deep breath. "Wait for me."

Natalya flounces away without a look back, but the tip of her ears are red.

* * *

 

Spring comes with a kiss under an apple tree.

"Call me Natasha," the doe mutters, and Liz echoes after her, feeling the way the word curls around her tongue and slips out of her mouth in a breathless gasp.

Liz wonders what her Lady will say now, if she sees her beloved huntress's heart being utterly captured and caged by another huntress of a different kind, and wonders if her Lady will chuckle or raises her eyebrows unimpressed by Liz's little romance. Then Natalya - no, Natasha now, and the significance behind this allowance sends another shiver down her spine - kisses her again, warm and shy and utterly sweet, and all of Liz's thoughts melts away. 


	29. America: Under Siege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wang Xiao Mei "May" - Taiwan

The best way to prevent your guts from spilling out, Alfred thinks, is simply to ignore it.

Not that he has a _choice_ , given the chaos happening right outside of the door. He tightens the sash wrapped around his stomach.

Matthew runs into the room, not even bothering to shut the door. "Ludwig found us a secret exit."

"Great," Alfred grumbles, a hand pressing against the wall as he struggles to get up. Matthew hurries forward and supports him with an arm across his back. "I told you it's a bad idea to use an abandoned fortress as a refuge."

"Yes, you also told me your intestines are hanging out like Liz's necklaces, but here you are, still breathing and alive."

"Shut it."

They scampers down the corridors, the occasional rumble as the building shakes, the army downstairs probably trying to break a hole in the walls. It doesn't help that the stairway down is _spiralled_ , and Alfred curses whichever stupid architect decides that aesthetic is much more important than _practicality._

When they finally reached the supposed exit, though, it is _Arthur_ waiting for them.

"Where's Ludwig?" Matthew asks, shifting Alfred's weight on his shoulder.

Arthur shrugs, pointing into the tunnel. "He went in first to scout with May. So far it's going good, and even if it doesn't lead anywhere, it will be a good place to hide. Get in."

"Thanks," Alfred grits out, tightening his grasp on his stomach, "What about you? And the others?"

"You _need_ someone to keep it from collapsing," Arthur snaps, and it's only then Alfred realises the brown wisp flowing from the Magician's fingers into the creaks of the building. "Liz and the others are outside trying to fend off the attacks as long as possible. As soon as you get to safety, we can all evacuate."

And it all comes down to blaming him for being a burden again. "Is that how you talk to the _heir_!"

Matthew suddenly slumps, and the dip causes Alfred to slip _off_ , his stomach flipping frightfully until both his subjects pulls him back to leaning against Matthew. Alfred glares at Matthew, but the latter is staring pointedly at Arthur. Arthur returns the glare, but something Alfred cannot quite name passes through between them, and Arthur sighs, looking away as he says tiredly, "Just get in."

Matthew pulls Alfred in without a moment's hesitation.

It irks Alfred, to be pulled around all over the place without his knowledge nor consent, but when they catch up with Ludwig and May, he can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. May changes his blood-soaked bandages as Matthew goes on to scout with Ludwig, and even though it hurts, the anaesthetics help a lot.

"Don't worry! Luckily, it's not a very deep cut, so you'll be fine," May assures when Alfred begins to fret. "No wonder Yao says you're dramatic." It makes Alfred's mood sours even more, because what type of king will he be if he can't even take a shallow wound? He's useless enough right now, being carted from place to place like a sack of potatoes - very valuable, expensive, top-rated potatoes that are probably wrapped in gold-laced cloth, that is - and protected by everyone around him without being able to do _anything_ in return. It's just, just -

"Up you go, Prince! I know it's frustrating not to do more. I really want to join everyone else at the frontlines, but you need me here to take care of your injuries." Despite her small stature, May is frighteningly strong as she supports a man twice her size with a single shoulder while talking with a _smile_. "Let's catch up with Ludwig and Matthew."

Alfred nods. May drags him along until eventually they reach a set of stairs heading up to a slit of light. She rests him against a wall, still in the shadows, as she goes ahead to check if it's safe.

When the overhead door opens, May's face immediately splits into a grin. The door swings back with a loud clang, and Matthew's face can be seen, staring back at them. "It connects to a farm!"

May hops back down, and together with Matthew and Ludwig pulling from above lifts Alfred out of the tunnel. Ludwig then kneels above the opening, leaning towards the tunnel as he releases a glowing green magpie into the tunnel. It disappears into the dark.

"Where does it go?" Alfred asks, struggling to maintain his balance as May shifts him off to Matthew.

Ludwig shrugs. "Back to Arthur. Some of his magic, to release it when we are safe so that they will know when it is alright to leave."

There it is again, the niggling at his heart that feels familiarly like the guilt at being the burden _again_. "Do you think they'll be fine?"

"They will. They are assigned to protect you after all. Plus my brother is there." He stands up and pats off the grass stains. "Come on, the farm is just behind these hedges. The family agrees to let us stay a night."

  
Alfred limps after him, Matthew a steady anchor. "You're not useless," Matthew suddenly whispers, and Alfred wonders how Matthew  _always_ manages to figure out what he's thinking. "Being protected doesn't mean you're useless. It simply means you're so important, so precious that we need you to stay alive so you can do what you need to do."   


"Thanks," Alfred mumbles, burying his face into his sleeves. He hears Matthew hums in acknowledgement, and smiles.  


	30. Prussia, America, side GerCan: Life Sucks

Gilbert honestly hasn't expect Alfred to stomp right up to him after school.

Alfred's face looks - looks constipated, to be honest, but also very, very, _angry_ , and when he fists Gilbert's collar and slams him against the wall, Gilbert is _terrified_.

Not that he'll let him know that.

"Hey dude, hands off," Gilbert tries to shrug. Alfred's face twists to look even more infuriated, and gosh Alfred is not going to punch him is he?

"Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" Alfred hisses, inching closer until Gilbert can feel the warm breath on his face. "You're a cool dude and all, but this is just too much. Don't pretend to be stupid. You stay away from my _brother._ "

... What? "Birdie? Why?" Then something in his mind clicks. "The fuck? You some control freak or something? _You_ don't decide what your brother decides to do. He can hang out with whoever he wants."

Alfred pulls him off the wall before shoving him back again, this time pulling  _up_ until Gilbert's legs are dangling in mid-air. "You damn freak," Alfred growls. Gilbert wonders how he isn't pissing his pants yet. "I interfere because Mattie is making the wrong choice with you, and I will _never,_ " and here he pauses, presses so close until their noses are barely touching, " _approve_  of you."

The anger bubbles up Gilbert's chest. "What's wrong with me, huh?" he challenges, tugging at Alfred's hands. They don't even budge. "Come on. Tell me straight to my face you bastard."

Alfred releases him. Gilbert drops back to the ground with a stumble, but pointedly maintains eye-contact. Then Alfred is slamming his fists into the wall and trapping Gilbert in between his arms, and it's like being cornered by a starving pack of _wolves._  "You. You don't take any-fucking-thing seriously," Alfred states softly, but the edge in his tone is not soft at all. "I don't _trust_ you with Mattie."

"What's that got to do with it?" Gilbert snarls. He shoves Alfred back, and this time the other stumbles. Gilbert is vaguely aware of the crowd forming around them, but he ignores them. "That doesn't mean I don't treat my friends well. You're my friend too, aren't you? Or so I thought," he spits out the last word.

"This isn't just about _friends_." Alfred doesn't back down. "Mattie is soft, and if you hurt him or anything he'll let it go, he won't tell, and I'm not going to let you just exploit him!"

"I'm not exploiting him!"

"Oh yeah? You think your head is not filled with so much arrogance that you'll actually notice?"

"Says the one with an inflated ego!"

Alfred punches him. Gilbert _crumples_ , but he doesn't fall, and that means he'll hit back, a punch to the guts, and Alfred recoils with an "oomph".

The spots are still flickering in his eyes when Alfred punches again, and the next few minutes are buried in a fluster of pain and punches, adrenaline forcing him to just _keep moving_  and fighting back. Then there are arms pulling him backward and away from Alfred's flailing arms. "Brother, stop."

Ludwig. And Vash too; fucking prefects, Gilbert is in deep shit now. "Glad to see you." Gilbert grins as across him, Matthew and Antonio is holding Alfred back too, the latter gesturing wildly.

"Look, will someone explain what's going on?" Vash snaps.

Alfred points aggressively at Gilbert. "He's fucking my brother!"

"What?" Matthew says.

"What," Gilbert echoes. "What, no. I'm not."

"Then explain why is Mattie sexting a _Potato Beilschmidt_ on his phone."

"Fuck, Alfred, you looked through my phone without my permission?!"

Antonio chuckles. "Gosh Matthew, I didn't know you have it in you to sext someone."

"Actually, that will be me." Ludwig clears his throat. "The, the _Potato Beilschmidt_. It's an inside joke."

Gilbert doesn't think he ever heard the hallway so quiet. It takes a few attempts before he finds his voice. "You're _dating_ Birdie?!"

Ludwig grimaces.

Matthew smiles awkwardly.

Alfred takes two steps forward and raises his hand. In a split second, everyone jolts into action, from Matthew and Antonio surging forward to stop Alfred, to Gilbert ready to defend his brother, to Vash tensing up preparing for action, the tiny gasps from the crowd, and -

The hand swings down and pats Ludwig on his shoulders. "You," Alfred begins, smiling in relief, "I approve of you."

Gilbert blinks. Then he blinks again. "Did I just get fucking punched for nothing?"


End file.
